


New Beginnings (Re-Write)

by The_Desert_Dancer



Series: The Moon Child [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Dead Money, F/F, Ghost people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 17:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16100699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Desert_Dancer/pseuds/The_Desert_Dancer
Summary: Lyra Redcloud flees the Sierra Madre, with tons of gold and three hostile companions in tow. Can the Courier manage to make it back home to the Mojave without everyone dying, or will she have to make some sacrifices along the way? Rated M for mature themes and adult language. WIP!





	1. Heist of the Centuries

The sound of bubbling pots and rustling wind filled the small hut, as a young girl with short black hair sat on the floor. An inquisitive look was evident on her face, as she looked at the only other person inside of the hut.

“Nannu, can I ask you a question?” Lyra Redcloud inquired, her head cocked to one side.

The old man called Nannu looked up, his bones creaking and cracking. The very act of lifting up his head seemed to have exhausted Nannu of every bit of his energy, as a weary sigh escaped from his tired lungs. But by the twinkle in his light blue eyes and the small smile that appeared on his weathered face, Nannu seemed excited by his young visitor.

“What is it, my child?” Nannu

“Why did you choose my name?” Lyra asked. “Lyra, I understand. But why ‘Redcloud’? No-one else in our tribe has that name…”

“Because you are my special little Lyra.” Nannu explained, his tired smile growing even wider. “And you deserve a special name.”

“Nannu, be honest.” Lyra demanded with a frown. “I’m not a little girl anymore; I’m nearly old enough to go out on expeditions with the hunters.”

“Hmmm....it is true, you are no longer the little girl I once held in both my hands. I think you are old enough to know.” Nannu muttered. “You know about the...head pains I get?”

“Momma says they get very bad.” Lyra responded. “And that…”

“Yes?”

“She says you can see into the future.” Lyra continued.

“Your Momma is right...but also wrong.” Nannu explained. “I can see into the future… it is a gift granted to me by our ancestors in the night sky, to allow them to communicate with us. It can be…painful, very painful. But I don’t see into the future, not really. I see more...possibilities.”

“Possibilities?”

“I just see colors, animals, vases….things that will take place in the future, but not proper looks. When you were born, the ancestors gave me a vision, one of your future.”

“What did you see, Nannu?”

“I saw red, so much red. Whatever your future holds, it is tied to that color.” Nannu answered. “I saw a red cloth. Then...a one-headed Brahmin, coloured red. Then red hair filled my vision. And lastly….I saw red clouds.”

“Red clouds?”

“Red clouds, but not a bright red. No...this red was dark and dull, almost the color of blood. It...it felt like a warning. As if the ancestors were warning you to stay away from these red clouds, that they’d only bring you pain and sorrow.”

“So my name, Redcloud…”

“I gave you, as a reminder and a warning. To avoid the red clouds, to stay away from any you see. Lyra, my little Lyra...I do not want to see any harm come to you. I know you are an explorer, a hunter, a woman who loves adventure and fight. So much like your Momma, so much like your Nanna. But please...avoid the red clouds. Avoid them at all costs. I...I don’t want to lose you, like...like I lost Nanna.”

* * *

 

The Courier leant against the side of the ruined wall, weariness coursing through her veins. The foul stench of the Cloud clogged her nostrils, and she could feel her heart smashing against her chest and her back screamed in pain from the pounds of gold she was carrying. But despite all of this, despite all the aches and pains and fears, she couldn't have been more relieved. It was over, finally fucking over.

All the insanity, the worry, the threat of having her head exploded by a crazed Brotherhood elder, was finally over. She had managed to escape the Vault and had left that bastard Elijah trapped down there, stuck inside that metal cage with no hopes of escape.

A weary smile soon graced Lyra's face, as she wiped the sweat from her face and took a deep breath. She could go home now, finally. She could get back to the Lucky 38, rest in a comfy bed and be back with her beautiful red-headed lass Cassidy. Looking down at her scratched Pipboy, a frown appeared on Lyra's face as she saw she was still on the same frequency as Father Elijah's broadcast. As she went to change the frequency, the frequency kicked in.

_"Heh... now, come on, you open up. Open up, damn you. Open the vault... I can make it worth your while, think about what you're throwing away. I have other weapons, other technology I can share with you. And the Big Empty... I know the way there. I know some of its secrets... if... The collars... the collars were a mistake, I see that now. Why would I kill you? After all you've done... after all we've done together. Are you listening to me?!"_

The relief that Lyra had previously felt quickly disappeared, as the temperature dropped several degrees. Fear started coursing through her veins, as she continued to hear from Father Elijah.

_"Everything down here... I swear... so much you could use, you could rule the wastes with what's down here... ...make your own army, re-shape the world, and if others disagree... put collars on them, I can show you how. Don't you leave me here. You can't do this to me. Eh? Getting dark in here. Machine... machine's losing power, no. I still have Pip-Boy light... maybe... maybe... no, no, that doesn't work. Where... where is the door. Can't find the door. Calm, been in worse situations... find a way out... somehow, then find that Courier..."_

The Courier didn't know why she didn't just turn off her Pipboy, just shut it off and ignore the wild ramblings of this old man. But she couldn't find that strength to do it; her limbs had snapped into place, as if Father Elijah's words had placed a spell upon her, forcing her to listen to what he said.

_"Maybe Veronica... no... no, she thinks I'm dead. Must be someone... maybe that other courier, one with the flag on his back... maybe... no... no, said he'd never come to the Sierra Madre... No way out. Can't….can't end like this. You. I know you can hear me. When you die, Courier…I'll be waiting. Your grave's going look just like this vault. When you die…I'll be waiting here…at the Sierra Madre. Waiting…"_

Static then filled the air, before the broadcast finally fell silent. Lyra took a deep breath and shook her head slightly, as the feeling finally returned to her limbs. She shouldn't have been this scared; Father Elijah couldn't escape. The vault was locked tight and even if Elijah could figure out how to escape the inescapable vault, he'd have to figure out how to get past all the holograms and turrets and then figure out how to rework the elevator that she'd blown up. Letting out a relieved sigh, Lyra got up and making her way towards the fountain, her bag of gold in hand.

"Enjoy your stay, Elijah." Lyra muttered. "Cause you're gonna be there a while."


	2. Sierra Madre Finale

Silence had fallen in the Sierra Madre, a sound that the polluted city was quite accustomed to. But this was a different type of silence; the usual silence was a dangerous one, a silence that was waiting to be broken so it could pounce on its unsuspecting victims. But this silence…it was an empty one, devoid of all life. It filled the claustrophobic streets and the crumbling houses, suffocating what little life still remained within the toxic casino.

Three individuals stood in front of the ancient fountain, the hologram of Vera Keyes flickering above them. They eyed each other warily, clutching their weapons tightly. An aura of distrust permeated between them, with the three individuals seemingly agreeing that none of them could be trusted. Before, when their lives were on the line, some form of trust could be fostered. But no, without that explosive incentive holding them together? All bets were off and letting your guard down for even a moment possibly resulting in death.

The individual furthest to the left clutched a worn Police Pistol in his hands, a sneer plastered on his face. The man wore a dirty formal tuxedo and a pair of sunglasses, giving him an air of class. He would've been quite a looker, if it wasn't for the fact every inch of his skin was rotten and scarred. There was a name, for this type of condition; Ghoulism. His name was plastered on most of the posters nearby, sharing top billing with Vera Keyes, a name that opened many doors and plenty of opportunities; Dean Domino, actor and singer extraordinaire.

"Now, let us be realistic here." Dean stated, a hint of smugness to his voice. "It has been well over an hour since the old man and our mailman friend journeyed into that casino. Every tourist within the city bolted straight for there, and we haven't got a single scrap of news yet. I might be a betting man, but even I wouldn't be betting on her chances on surviving."

The individual in the middle let out a small chuckle at that, but it wasn't a pleasant chuckle; it was one filled with dark intent and promises sealed with blood. The individual was a mammoth of a creature, a being of immense stature and muscles. His skin was flushed a dull purple, but riddled with plenty of scars. On his chest the word 'DOG' was carved in, and his left hand wrapped around with the rusted metal of a bear trap. A Super Sledge was held tightly in his ruined hands, blood staining the weapon. This individual, his mind was once splintered, two different personas snapping and snarling at each other, a private war waged within his own mind. But now the war was over, with one persona reigning supreme and the other sleeping the long sleep.

"And something tells me you are most correct in that assumption, singer." God mumbled. "And yet here we are, waiting at this fountain like dogs waiting for treats from their master. Why are we waiting for a false hope, if we all believe that our Courier friend perished?"

"Simple, really." Dean stated. "I'm waiting for everything to die down, for those ghost people to calm down and return back to their service tunnels, so I can slip into that casino and make off with my treasure."

"Your treasure?" God inquired. "And here I thought the Old Man was arrogant; your body might have become rotten and foul, but it seems your ego continues to survive and thrive."

Dean only responded with a deep scowl, his gnarled hand gripping tightly at his Police Pistol. The dark grin on God's face grew even wider, as he took a lumbering step forward. The two were soon stopped, as they heard their other companion begin to speak.

"Smart idea, you two." The third individual stated. "Start fighting so you can alert the ghost people to our presence."

The third individual was a woman, but it was hard to tell at first glance. Her head had been shaved completely bald and her face was heavily scarred like her two companions. But whereas the scars on God and Dean were messy and natural, the woman's scars were smooth and precise; it was as if a machine had made them. A Holorifle was in her hands, aimed and ready to fire. She wore dull blue jeans and a dirty white a-shirt top that was speckled with blood. Even with all the trauma she had suffered, Christine Royce's skills as a fighter hadn't diminished one iota.

"We're staying here, for Lyra." Christine stated firmly. "It's because of her we all made it out alive, it's the least we can do for her. We're gonna be patient and wait; if she still hasn't come back by then, we charge the casino and try to save her."

"Ohoho, this is rich." Dean responded, an acidic tone to his voice. "In case you didn't realise my little nightingale, I don't take orders from anyone, least of all a girl who's been sliced up more than a slab of meat."

Christine stood there silently, an eyebrow raised, before grabbing the Holorifle and firing it at the Ghoul singer. A grunt escaped from Dean’s irradiated lips, as the energy beam hit his Police Pistol, causing the gun to go flying into the air before being swallowed up by the darkness. A small chuckle escaped God's scarred lips, as he saw this scene unfold before him. Dean just stood there silently, a silent anger burning up within him.

"I guess you're in charge here, partner." Dean growled, his voice turning feral at the word 'partner'. "We'll just wait here, where any of those damn ghost could get us."

Domino went to the nearby Vending Machine, using up his chips to buy a new pistol. Silence fell around the fountain, the three individuals eyeing each other warily while keeping their guard up. After what seemed like an eternity, the sound of footsteps filled the air. Dean, God and Christine whipped around, weapons barred and ready for use. However, they soon dropped their weapons once they saw who it was.

A woman was walking towards the trio, dressed in the armour of the old Sierra Madre Security. A knife spear was attached to her back and she carried a dirty and worn burlap sack. The woman reached the fountain and dropped the sack, before removing her helmet, revealing her tired expression and her dark hair drenched in sweat. 

"It's over." The Courier stated, a relieved tone to her voice. "The elevator to the vault is destroyed and Father Elijah is trapped down there. Even if he could figure out some way to escape that inescapable vault, he has to deal with turrets, security holograms, a fuckton of Cloud and an army of Ghost People before he even managed to find a new way out."

"...well, this is certainly surprise." Dean admitted. "I was fully expecting both you and the old man to have cashed out."

"Same here, Dean." Lyra admitted. "I have no idea how, but I managed to hide without Elijah seeing me at all. Walked straight into that vault, expecting to see me there."

"And so our precious Courier not only cracked the casino and manoeuvred through all the security and ghost people, you also managed to outwit the Old Man and hoist him by his own petard?" God mused, amusement evident in his eyes. "You are certainly a deceptive person, Courier; outwards, you appear to be weak and timid. But inside? You are as cunning as any of us, perhaps even more cunning."

"Well um, thanks God." Lyra muttered. "I appreciate the…compliment, I guess?"

"So, you were in the vault huh?" Dean inquired, a hungry tone to his voice. "Did you get the treasure?"

Lyra remained silent, as she opened up the burlap sack. The Ghoul singer fell deathly still, as he looked inside. The sack was filled with armour, weapons, Sierra Madre chips, but most importantly gold bars; there had to be at least 20 or 30 of those dull gold bars inside. A sickeningly wide grin appeared on Dean's face, before he pointed a his pistol at Lyra's face. Christine and God automatically reached for their own weapon, ready to attack.

"Well, now that the dust has settled, I think it's time for me to collect on my debt." Dean stated. "I've spent 200 years in this hellhole, 200 years of scrounging and struggling to survive, all to just make sure that Sinclair's treasure ended up in my hands. And I will be damned if I'll let some tourist take it from me, just because she had some help."

"Dean, I don't want the gold." Lyra answered, shaking her head slowly. "I never wanted the gold; I just wanted to get out of here alive. You can have it all, you dumb fuck.”

"…..I beg your pardon?" Dean asked, a frown on his irradiated face.

"Trust me, the gold does not interest me at all." The Courier responded, before turning to her two companions. "Do either of you two want a cut?"

"Gold does not interest me." God growled. "What use would it be to carry it, if all it will do is slow me down?"

"Same here, big guy." Christine added. "The Brotherhood supplied me with most of my needs, so I'm not exactly wanting of things."

"See Dean?" Lyra pleaded. "I got the gold just for you, so you wouldn't have to die in there. Just please, don't do this. I don't want any more bloodshed or death, not after everything we've been through."

The Ghoul singer stood there silently, seemingly examining Lyra and her two friends, unsure of how to exactly proceed. Before he could say anything, a loud explosion sounded off near them. The four fighters turned around, to see ghost people slowly lumbering towards the group. Their knife spears were out and there was a bloodlust to this horde of abominations, as they lumbered forward.

"Okay, this is definitely not the time to deal with this." Lyra stated. "Let's get outta dodge, and now!"

The Courier grabbed a grenade and lobbed it forward, where it landed with a dull clunk. An explosion sounded off, causing limbs and blood to go flying everywhere. As the remaining ghost people tried to re-assemble themselves, Lyra and her companions had already made a beeline for the gates and making their way towards the Mojave Wastelands.


	3. Beware of Dog/God Complex

"Where’s the moon when you need it?" Lyra thought to herself, shaking her head. “Goddamn sun…”

The Courier had a tense scowl on her face, as she felt the sun beating down on her. Her Sierra Madre Security Armour had so far proven to be both a blessing and a curse. While able to protect her from most blows and cuts, the armour couldn't protect her from the intense heat of the unforgivable ball of fire that was called the sun. Lyra could feel her skin being drenched in sweat and her raven hair sticking to her scalp, as she continued to trek across the barren Wastelands with her trio of companions.

A sigh escaped from her lips, a tired aura surrounding her. Lyra missed the moon; she missed the coolness of the night sky, of being able to travel under a blanket of stars and moonlight. She loved the darkness and being able to hide in the shadows. But most importantly, she just loved staring up into the night sky and seeing the bright white stars and the moon, sitting comfortable up above as she stared down onto the earth. Unfortunately for the Courier, her companions didn't share her passion for the night time; instead, preferring to travel out in the daytime and under the scorching glare of the sun.

"Deep in thought, are we?" a snide voice interrupted.

Lyra was startled from her inner mind, her train of thought becoming severely derailed. The Courier whipped her head around, finding herself staring into the inky-black eyes of God. As much as Lyra hated to admit it, it was a gaze she struggled to keep. Lyra wasn't the biggest fan of Super Mutants, Lily being one of the sole exceptions. It wasn’t anything personal, it was just...well, they just freaked her out a little bit. But God though? This wasn’t just normal spookiness. There was just something about God that just set Lyra’s nerves on edge.

Maybe it was his intelligence, of how he was able to string together such eloquent words and seemed to have knowledge of the world before it was doused in nuclear flames. Maybe it was his nonchalance regarding violence, treating it like an old pair of slippers you just slip on and off with ease. Maybe it was the fact that currently sleeping in the deep trenches of God's mind was a personality that constantly hungered for flesh, consuming everything in its path. Or maybe it was all those reasons combined together to form a poisonous cocktail of fear and anxiety.

"You could say that," Lyra muttered.

"I wonder what goes on in that pretty little mind of yours," God mused, as if talking to himself. "So many thoughts whirling around in that soft skull, all clambering to be noticed."

"Just thinking about how long until we reach the Mojave," Lyra lied, shrugging her shoulders.

"My my, aren't we a terrible little liar," God chuckled darkly. "What are you thinking of, truthfully?"

"Leave her alone, mutie," Christine growled from behind, a scowl on her scarred face. "She doesn't report to you."

"And you are not her mother, human," God responded. "Our Courier isn't concentrating right now; her mind is elsewhere. She could get us killed, not see something charge at us until it already has its claws sunk into her soft belly. So I wish to know what is so important to her that she will allow herself to be this distracted."

"Lyra, you don't need to answer to him," Christine stated, turning to face the Courier. "He's just being an asshole."

"No, merely not wishing to die," God explained. "I finally am free of that accursed casino. I do not wish for my freedom to be short-lived."

"…I was thinking about the sun," Lyra admitted. "About the moon, the stars, and all the sky."

"The moon and the stars?" Dean interrupted, disbelief heavy in his voice. "Oh goodness, please tell me you're not one of those hippie types…"

"Hippie?" Lyra asked, frowning. "I don't know what that is, but I don't think I am a 'hippie'. I was just thinking about was how I prefer the moon to the sun, is all."

"Sounds like a Nightkin tactic," God said, a cruel smile twisting his features. "The Master preferred that we hunted by night; made it even easier to take down our prey."

"Well, aren't you just a bundle of sunshine and lollipops," Dean snapped sarcastically. "I swear, between you, the hugger, and the scarred woman, I'm probably the only normal one here."

"You chose to stay inside of a deadly casino, filled with toxic gas and high-tech security, for over 200 years just to get back at a dead man!" Christine fired back. "You're as screwed up as the rest of us!"

The ghoul singer offered Christine an intense glare and muttered under his breath before marching on ahead. However, Domino was stopped when God placed his massive arm across his chest. Before he could say anything, God made a shushing noise, before nodding straight ahead. The quartet looked up at the indicated hill before them, and felt their blood run cold once they saw what exactly God was looking at.

Standing tall on top of the cliff was a giant, hulking creature. Its scaled skin was as dark as night, with sharp yellow teeth and curled horns. Lyra felt the bottom of her stomach giving out as she saw the Deathclaw was gorging upon a dead Yao Guai. The giant mutated reptile hadn't seemed to notice the quartet, too busy staining its dirty claws with blood and filling its belly with the meat of its prey.

Christine had already grabbed her Holorifle and was backing up, her fierce scowl deepening. God and Lyra were doing the same, while Dean stood there shocked.

"What on earth is that thing?" Dean asked. "Am I hallucinating, or am I seeing a giant lizard?"

"It's called a Deathclaw, Dean," Lyra explained. "These things are dangerous as fuck. More dangerous than any hologram or ghost person could ever hope to be."

"We might be able to sneak past it," God growled. "It hasn't picked up our scent yet; we could still get away."

"And risk getting jumped by that thing later on?" Christine scoffed. "We gotta take it out, now!"

"And what if there are more of them?" God fired back. "It's rare for Deathclaws to travel alone."

While God and Christine continued their argument, they didn't seem to notice the Deathclaw lifting its head and staring straight at them. Dean let out a worried murmur as he slowly backed away. Lyra, on the other hand, was already grabbing gas bombs and hurling them straight at the Deathclaw.

The killer monster roared in fury as the bombs exploded around it, dousing him in the toxic Cloud gas. God and Christine's argument cut short, the two quickly leapt into action; Christine fired off her Holorifle at the dazed Deathclaw, while God activated his Stealth Boy.

Shaking off the gas, the Deathclaw lunged towards the quartet. Christine and Domino aimed their guns and fired at the charging beast, while Lyra kept herself busy by tossing as many gas bombs as she could. While most of the explosives missed their marks, more than enough of them managed to hit the Deathclaw dead on. It let out ungodly screams as its pace slow down, disoriented by the barrage. The Deathclaw's howls of agony only grew louder as its left leg suddenly broke with a sickening crack. The limb exploded into a mess of cartilage and blood, its knee completely shattering, causing the Deathclaw to collapse to its remaining good knee.

Swiping and slashing at anything near it, pain giving way to rage, it was trying to kill whatever had injured it. Then blood suddenly appeared out of thin air, followed by a grunt, as a figure flickered into existence. God clutched at his right shoulder, the purple skin viciously torn apart by the Deathclaw, his eyes burning with anger.

Sensing a window of opportunity, Christine levelled her Holorifle and aimed straight at the Deathclaw's face, letting out a burst of rapid fire. The beast shrieked as its face was burnt by the energy shots. Dean fired his police pistol, hitting it in its soft belly, while Lyra rushed over to God.

The Nightkin had stumbled back, clutching at his torn shoulder. Digging into her bag, Lyra had already produced a handful of Stimpaks and was using them to help heal God's wounds.

"Don't bother with me, little Courier," God growled, trying to shoo the woman away. "We need to deal with this Deathclaw, now."

"We gotta heal you,” Lyra responded. "You're bleeding pretty badly here, God."

Before the conversation could continue, a loud shriek filled the air. Lyra whipped her head around, to see the Deathclaw collapsing to the ground dead, its body a charred mess. Dean and Christine stood a few metres away, sweating and breathing heavily.

A relieved sigh escaped the Courier's lips before she turned around to look at God's shoulder. While the skin was stretched tight and more than likely going to leave some ugly scarring, the good news was that she had managed to get the bleeding to stop. The sense of calm was soon broken, though, as the sound of more roaring could be heard in the distance.

"Looks like we've angered quite a raucous crowd here," Dean stated slowly. "Let's get out of here quickly; I really would not like to do an encore."

* * *

 

"Well look at this," Lyra whistled. "A vehicle boneyard."

In front of the quartet stood a plethora of ancient cars and trucks, covered in rust and wear, surrounded by a broken chain-link fence. Next to this fenced off area was a garage, boarded up and looking to be on the verge of collapse. Night had fallen, washing the area in pale moonlight.

"I haven't seen a car in over 200 years," Dean mused to himself. "And now I'm seeing hundreds of them..."

"Seems to be empty, for the most part," Christine said. "That garage there looks secure enough. The entrance way is too small for any Deathclaw and Yao Guai. We can camp here for the night before moving on to the Mojave."

Lyra absentmindedly nodded to that, eyes still fixed on the numerous vehicles in front of her. The Courier had seen plenty of cars before -- they were all over the Mojave wastes -- but she had never seen so many of them in one place before. Lyra couldn't wrap her brain around the fact that these machines were capable of transporting whole families of people across the entire country, and somehow were even faster than any Nightstalker or Brahmin.

"You think a lot, little Courier," a dark voice mused. "You see the world differently than most. Everything seems to fascinate you, as if you are only just experiencing them."

The Courier turned around to stare into the cold eyes of God. Dean and Christine were already making their way towards the garage, ripping apart the boards that covered the door. Lyra felt a shiver run down her spine as she forced herself to continue to look at the Super Mutant; this was definitely not a time to show she was intimidated.

"Who are you, Courier? Can you even remember who you were before those bullets scarred your brain?"

"I'm Lyra Redcloud. I'm a courier…or at least, I was a courier. I've told you all this before, God."

"That is not all that you are. I can tell, you know. The stench of lies is strong on you; it is most pungent, seeping out of every pore you have. You know everything about me, about the scarred woman, and about the singer. And yet we know nothing about you, little Courier. I grow weary of the dodged questions and half-truths. I want answers -- truthful answers -- and I want them now. Who are you?"

“Why does it matter so much to you? Knowing my identity, my past?”

“‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.’ I am no fool, Courier. You may have defeated the old man and freed us from captivity… but I know nothing about you. That makes you very hard to trust.”

The two stared at each other, neither one flinching or turning away. Even though Lyra’s stomach was currently twisting with anxiety, adrenaline was also coursing through her veins. She knew she was in a scary situation, but she sure as hell wasn’t gonna back down right now.

“You really wanna know? I’m Lyra Redcloud. I grew up in the Moon Sifters tribe before moving to the Mojave to become a courier.”

"First truth I've heard from you in quite a while, little Courier," God stated. "You've finally stopped hiding behind shadows and masks, relying on mistruths and other falsehoods. Now, my little liar, where are you from?"

"A desert, but not the Mojave," Lyra explained. "It was called the Chihuahuan Desert, in the way back times."

"Hmmmmm, most interesting. So what are you doing here? Why aren’t you back with your tribe?”

"None of your business.”

"I'll just leave then. Or I could just kill you,” the mutant threatened. “It'd be easy as snapping your neck. And the singer? I'd have him screaming in pain as I break every bone in his body. The scarred woman would prove difficult, given her fighting prowess, but I'd be ripping her apart sure enough. I am done with lies. I want truth now. Why are you in the Mojave?"

The Courier just stood there, her heart banging in her chest and bile rising in her throat. She didn't want this... She definitely didn't fucking want this. Her past was dead; dead the moment Benny shot her in the skull. She didn't want those memories brought up. Memories of caverns and moons, and of the tribes. Memories of little Stella or Sirius or Chief Polaris. Memories of slave collars, men dying, women crying, children fleeing…

"God, what the hell are you doing?!" Christine growled, stomping towards the two. "Why are you scaring Lyra?!”

“Our little Courier is a liar, keeping secrets from us," God explained. “And I don’t like liars.”

"She's entitled to some secrets!" Christine fired back. "She got us out of that casino safely and rescued us from that bastard Elijah!"

"But can you trust a woman who isn't even honest about her past?" God asked.

Without even waiting for an answer, the Nightkin walked towards the car yard, not even bothering to look back. The bag of treasures was dropped onto the ground, gold bars spilling out into the dust; a glaring reminder of the Sierra Madre. The two women merely stood there, watching him go.

Christine turned and placed her hand on Lyra's shoulder, giving a tight squeeze and a small smile. Some words were spoken, but the Courier wasn’t focusing on them. She was too busy concentrating on the blood pumping in her ears and the feeling of her heart smashing against her ribcage, ready to pop out. Lyra didn’t even notice Christine leaving to return to the garage, nor the sound of new approaching footsteps.

"Care for a cigarette?" Dean asked. "I've got more than enough."

"No, thank you," Lyra responded, shaking her head. "I just… I just need to clear my head a bit."

"Understandable, of course. Being interrogated by that brutish thug would rattle anyone's nerves," Dean mused as he lit a cigarette for himself. "So, is it true? You were a tribal?”

"Yes, I am a tribal. Just because my tribe is no longer around, does not mean I no longer am one.”

“Poetic, in a way. So, why the change? I must admit, I am curious.”

"...I just needed a new beginning," Lyra admitted. "My life... it just went to hell. I needed to start fresh."

"To begin again?" Dean inquired, a light tone to his voice.

"Yeah, if you wanna put it like that," Lyra sighed. "I just hate talking about my past. There’s too much baggage there... too much heartache and sorrow. And what good is it to keep reminding myself of the past, when it’ll only bring me pain?”

"…You wanna know something, my little tourist?" Dean asked. "And I will definitely not repeat this ever again. You remind me quite a bit of Vera. Take of that what you will."

The Courier frowned, unsure of what exactly Dean meant by that statement. The ghoul singer dropped his half-finished cigarette onto the ground, crushing it out with the heel of his shoe. Offering Lyra a curt nod, he turned around and headed towards the garage, leaving her alone with the moon and the stars.


	4. Skin Deep

The inside of the garage had held up surprisingly well, given that it had been abandoned for who knows how long. A thick layer of dust covered everything and most of the food had gone bad, but there were still a few medical supplies and even some Sunset Sarsaparilla to tide the group over. A skeleton laid in the corner of the building, an ancient blood splatter behind its head and a rusted 9mm pistol in hand. It was obvious what had happened here, so there was no need for the quartet to talk about it.

But it was the object in the middle of the garage was what caught the group's eyes. An old Highwayman, covered in graffiti and scratches, rested comfortably in the middle of the garage. It didn't look as run down as most of the other vehicles here; it looked surprisingly intact. A desk was nearby, with a computer terminal on top of it. Lyra was currently going through the many files on the terminal, fascinated by the lore there.

"Found anything interesting?" Dean Domino inquired. "A safe stashed somewhere containing some loot, possibly?"

"…I've found something very interesting." Lyra admitted. "This car, this Highwayman, is apparently a very very special car."

"How so?" God asked. "From where I stand, this machine looks to be the same as all the other vehicles in this graveyard."

"Well, according to this terminal, this Highwayman used to belong to the Chosen One." Lyra stated slowly, a tinge of awe to her voice. "At least, before it got stolen by this group of scavengers."

The mood in the garage shifted somewhat at the Courier's statement. Christine had whipped her scarred head up, her eyes widening slightly, while God and Dean just stood there unfazed.

"The Chosen One?" Dean asked, a mocking tone to his voice. "Someone thought highly of themselves, didn't they? Might as well have called themselves Emperor…"

"The Chosen One was a hero to the people of New California," Christine explained. "Stopped the Enclave dead in their tracks, and became a legend of the NCR."

"Hmmm, that makes sense," God muttered. "Dog and I had heard stories about this Chosen One. Only whispers; murmurs about this so called hero who crushed the Enclave. So this vehicle belonged to him?"

"It belonged to her, yes," Lyra corrected. "But these scavengers apparently hijacked it, planning to sell it to some group called the Ciphers, led by some guy called Ratchet. And the last terminal update was... Holy crap, nearly four years ago!"

"Four years ago?" Christine muttered. "They must be dead, no doubt. No other explanation for why this Highwayman is still here."

"Probably got on the wrong side of one of those Deathclaw things out there," Dean mused. "Well, whatever does remain of this scavenger group, I highly doubt they're in enough pieces to care if we nick this 'Chosen One' memorabilia."

"...you mean, steal the car?" Lyra inquired.

"Why not?" Dean fired back. "It might be 200 years since I've driven one of these, but I do, in fact, know how to drive a car. Just chuck my loot in the trunk - preferably along with our violent mutant friend - and myself behind the wheel, and we should reach Vegas in no time flat."

"It's been four years since this vehicle has been used, Domino," Christine stated. "You really think it'll still work?"

At that comment, a wide grin appeared on Dean's irradiated face as he walked towards the Highwayman. The ghoul singer placed a hand on the hood of the car while Christine and the others stood back in confusion.

"Luckily for us, we do have an ace up our sleeves," Dean stated, turning around to face Christine. "My father was a car enthusiast. Spent most of his weekends dissembling and reassembling the family Buick's engine... before a stroke took him. My father forced me to sit with him and listen to him prattle on and on about Highwaymans and Buicks and Corvegas and such. And luckily for us, these memories are well ingrained into my brain. I could more than likely fix this jalopy up." He grinned. "With your help of course."

"Me?" Christine asked.

"I saw you make those counterfeit chips that managed to fool Sinclair's Vending Machines," Dean explained. "You have a knack for mechanics and tools; a real blue-collar worker. I'm sure you'd be able to figure out how this car works. Now, come on! Chop-chop! Time is money, and I'd like to be in Vegas by yesterday, thank you."

"Who put you in charge, singer?" God growled, spitting the title like it tasted foul in his mouth.

"The minute we found this little piece of treasure and found our shortcut home," Dean responded simply. "Now, you can walk all the way to Vegas... Or you can listen to me for once. Your choice."

* * *

 

A week had passed since Project Highwayman had begun.

It was what Dean had called it - and expected everyone else to call it - saying that the mission deserves a proper title. "Something catchy."

To no one's surprise, the Highwayman was in a sad state of disrepair and in desperate need of replacement parts. Luckily for everyone involved, however, there was an entire yard filled with replacement parts they could need and more.

Everyone had worked together, assembling and dissembling and connecting all the parts together to form one workable car. While God was ripping the ancient vehicles outside apart, salvaging any part worth saving, the Courier kept an eye out on things; making sure no Yao Guai or Deathclaw got close, and responsible for making food for everyone. Christine and Dean worked in tandem. The Brotherhood scribe and the ghoul may have growled and argued with one another constantly, but at least they managed to continue working together with relative speed.

After the week had passed, Dean had announced the car was finished. Assembling everyone into the garage, he put the car key into the ignition and turned it. The car roared to life, the sound deafening. God and Christine scowled at the noise, while Lyra quickly covered her ears and closed her eyes.

A wide grin was plastered on Domino's face as a loud laugh escaped his lips. "It worked!" he announced proudly. "I did it, I saved everyone! You may thank me all later."

"Careful there, singer," God growled. "Or your ego will grow so large, you won't be able to exit this garage."

"Oh, please, save your witty statements when we're in Vegas celebrating over a bottle of champagne and caviar," Domino fired back. "Or in your case, my mutated friend, tap water and cram. Now come on, let's all pile in!" Without even bothering to look back, Domino opened the driver door of the Highwayman and sat behind the wheel, smugness radiating off of him in waves.

God gave the broken down vehicle a distrustful glare before sitting in the backseat, his massive frame taking up most of the space. Lyra and Christine offered each other a look, silently debating over who got the passenger seat, before the Courier gave Royce a small smile and went to sit next to God. Letting out a relived sigh, Christine made her way to the passenger seat, resting her Holorifle on her lap. The sack filled with Domino's gold rested in the trunk of the Highwayman, the bag carefully tied up.

"It's one-hundred and six miles to Vegas," Dean stated to himself. "We have a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out, and only one of us is wearing decent clothing."

"Hit it!" Lyra responded, a wry grin on her face.

* * *

 

The sun was slowly breaking over the horizon, and the only sound being made was of the Highwayman making its way across the dusty desert. The car had been left relatively unscathed by the local wildlife, outside of a Radscorpion that had tried to test its luck against the car before it found itself disintegrated by Christine's Holorifle.

The quartet had fallen silent since leaving the abandoned garage behind, unsure of what exactly to say. Now that all four of them actually had a moment of peace to themselves, they found that they were also unsure of what exactly to do.

Lyra looked at her three companions and bit her lower lip before she decided to break the silence. "You know, I've heard lots of stories about cars..." Lyra stated out loud. "Is it true that these things have built-in radios?"

"Not all cars," Dean answered. "But more often than not, they did have radios. And, luckily for us, this vehicle does indeed have a radio."

"...could we turn it on for a bit?" the Courier inquired hesitantly.

The singer didn't respond, instead silently reaching over to turning on the radio in the Highwayman. Static filled the cabin, causing Lyra to wince, before the ancient radio managed to pick up a signal. The sound of Vera Keye's voice, tinged with sorrow, as the first few beats of Begin Again began to play.

Almost immediately, Christine and Dean's hands both reached for the radio and wrenched it off, returning the car to its tense silence.

Domino stared straight ahead at the dusty road, an unreadable expression on his irradiated face before he spoke up. "Anyone interested in telling some stories, perhaps?" Dean inquired. "Maybe a funny anecdote or something to pass the time maybe?"

"Don't have many fun stories," Christine shrugged. "And the stories I do have aren't ones I enjoy repeating."

"My stories wouldn't interest you, unless you enjoy blood and violence," God quipped. "Maybe our little liar has some stories she would like to share?"

"God, stop badgering Lyra!" Christine stated tersely. "She can tell her stories when she's ready to, and not when you demand them!"

"No no, it's alright Christine," the Courier responded. "I... I think I should be telling my stories and stop keeping them locked away. Might help me sleep better at night, at least."

"Well then, proceed," God stated, crossing his arms.

"…Do you wanna know why I hated my bomb collar so much, why I always picked and scratched at it?" Lyra asked. "Because it reminded me too much of my youth."

Almost immediately, the air inside of the Highwayman seemed to turn cold. A shocked look flashed across Dean's face before it quickly morphed into an unreadable expression. God looked somewhat intrigued, but Christine had pure fury in her eyes.

"You mean, you were...?" Christine started, leaving the last word hanging in the air.

"Not a slave, no! Or, at least, not me personally," the Courier explained. "I grew up in a tribe, up in the Carlsbad Caverns. We called ourselves the Moon Sifters, and we were a proud tribe... until slavers came. My tribe fought long and hard, killing as many of those slaver bastards as possible, but... We lost. Our men were slaughtered, our women and children enslaved, and our history destroyed."

As she spoke, tears welled up in Lyra's eyes as painful memories flooded her brain. She remembered all the blood and corpses, the children screaming as collars were strapped around their necks and the women... the women being violated by those slaver bastards. Lyra might have forgotten plenty of memories because of those two bullets to her head, but those memories... Those were burned into her brain and would never leave her.

"How did you survive?" God inquired.

"I ran. Simple as that," Lyra explained, a hollow tone to her voice. "I was only fifteen. I thought I could take anything on. But when I saw those band of slavers, with their cattle prods and slave collars, I was scared. I was beyond petrified. I knew what happened to female slaves, and I didn't want that happening to me. I told everyone they needed to flee, to get out of there! But... that was considered the coward's way out. We were expected to stand our ground and fight for our land. But I didn't do that. I grabbed a duffle bag and fucking fled, telling myself I'd come back and maybe save some people. When I did come back... all I saw was horror and death."

An awkward silence fell inside of the Highwayman as the three other companions struggled to say something. What could one say to a story like that besides hollow apologies? The Courier then turned to God, an empty look in her eyes.

"That's my story, God," Lyra stated flatly. "That's my beginnings; the events that made me into who I am today. A coward who keeps on running, fearing my past."

"Why tell us now, when before you were so hesitant?"

"Because it's time I stopped being a coward," the Courier said, more resolute. "It's time I stopped running from my past. Time to face it head on. The story of the Moon Sifters needs to be told, so that future generations spread our stories before we get swallowed up by history. I'm the last of my tribe, and it is my duty to tell what happened. I've been negligent... Afraid. But no longer... I need to start acting like Lyra of the Moon Sifters.

"I need to embrace my past."


End file.
